Don't Let His Death Remain a Mystery
by EnamoredWithSherlolly
Summary: Teen!lock prompt from Tumblr: Molly's dad dies under mysterious circumstances, and Sherlock's determined to find out how. Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, please, no," Molly begged her best friend, trying to tug her arms away from his grip. "I can't…not now." She curled into her covers, her eyes raw and her throat sore.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, but then scooted up on the bed toward her, his hand hovering over her form.

"I'm apologize for doing this now, Molly, and I wish I would never have to, but you have to understand, this is time sensitive."

Molly shot up, not bothering to brush away the strands of hair sticking to her face. "I don't want to do this now, Sherlock. My dad's dead. I just want him back," she sobbed, hiccuping and hiding her face in her hands, letting the tears drip through her fingers. "I just..."

Hesitating for just a moment, Sherlock moved closer, wrapping her in an awkward embrace, just barely touching her. He didn't do close proximity, but he would do anything for his broken friend. The cerulean blue of his eyes became sharp with resolve. Absolutely anything.

* * *

It was a week later when he pulled Molly aside to the back of the school, ignoring her protests that she was going to be late for class. A simple "I found something about your dad," and she clutched her books close to her chest, allowing herself to be dragged under the large willow tree.

He pulled out a picture. She took it from him, peering carefully at it. A bit grainy and the man was far away, but his features were still clear. Large, crooked nose, small eyes, mohawk.

"My dad doesn't know anyone like that." She shook her head.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her, plucking the picture from her hands. "Doesn't have to. You know Steve, your dad's friend?"

"Yeah," she said warily. "They're best mates. What are you insinuating?"

"Steve is a drug addict. Painfully clear at the funeral." He ignored Molly's gaze, pulling down at his sleeve to cover the fading yellow bruise on his own arm. "Sunken eyes, burned fingertips and lips, several erratic mood swings in under an hour, highly dilated pupils - probably crack." Sherlock pointed at the picture. "And that's his dealer. I followed Steve into an alleyway and saw him meet up with this guy."

"But what does that have to do with my dad?" Molly glanced at the picture, then up at him. He became uncomfortable. She looked vulnerable.

"Well...when I was in your house I saw traces of white powder around the kitchen chairs. Not your dad's," he added hastily when he saw her devastated look. "It would have been clear. But I...snooped a bit and found your dad's briefcase. There was quite a bit of white stuff in there. Scrubbed out a bit, but that stuff is hard to get out. None of his other friends do drugs, so two possibilities. Would Steve have stuffed it in there without him knowing? Not likely. With that amount of residue, the baggie would have had to be big." Sherlock began to pace. "So that means your dad must have agreed to take it for him for a while. But why?"

Molly sat down on the grass, ignoring possible future stains on her jeans, her fingers finding individual blades and picking at them. Sherlock sat down as well, legs crossed, hands steepled under his chin as his mind whirred.

"Steve's house was a bit rundown, paint slightly cracking. So either he doesn't care, hasn't noticed, or doesn't have the resources to fix it. But he's normally not a slob. His shirt showed signs of once being pressed, barely there folds, so obviously he cares about appearance. Briefcase is also still quite new; the leather is barely darker on the handlebar, showing several months usage. The deterioration was recent, then. Several months at most. Recent addict, doesn't yet know how to handle the intake."

Molly let him deduce on, knowing it was his way of showing he cared. The drone was comforting in a way, getting her closer to closure about her dad's departure.

"Balance of probability - no resources. Why not? Because he spent it all on drugs. Probably stole it then, asked your dad to hide it for him."

"What if he just bought the drugs?" Molly asked, hugging her knees to her chest.

Sherlock shook his head. "When they were in the alleyway, Mohawk was standing with his hands crossed over his chest, and Steve's back was hunched. Pleading then. Why? Out of money, begging for more. Guys like that get desperate. Will do whatever it takes to get more. And Steve isn't an idiot. I saw him glance at the guy's open backpack, and his hands twitched. Itching to take whatever was inside. So he's likely stolen before."

He had been narrating with his eyes closed the whole time, but they popped open now. "Here's where it gets murky. Mohawk was the only one with the motive to kill your dad (Steve has much too low self-esteem to commit such a crime, and your dad's friends with the whole town, seeing the funeral procession) provided he saw the exchange and realized Steve stole from him. So the missing evidence - how do we prove he saw them? How, how, how?" Sherlock questioned, steepled fingers resting against the bottom of his chin.

Molly suddenly stood up. Sherlock sat up straight, seeing the sudden determination in her eyes.

"Let's go steal his backpack." She reached out her arm toward him, tugging him up as he took her hand. "There might be something there."

Sherlock snapped his fingers. "Excellent idea, Molly." He pushed her toward her books and backpack, still scattered on the ground, gently. "Except you're not coming. It's much too dangerous."

"I'm going." Molly set her teeth, straightening her back and glaring at him defiantly. "It's my dad we're talking about."

After a moment of glaring back, Sherlock finally backed down. "Fine. But you're following my every order. And I'll go in, not you."

"Fine."

"Fine."

* * *

Update coming soon!


	2. Chapter 2

"Hurry! Go go go! 'The Lonely Duck,' got it?" Molly tapped nervously on Sherlock's shoulder, in her mind begging him to pick the lock faster as she glanced about, watching to make sure mohawk man wasn't coming back. They'd already snooped at her house as well as Steve's and narrowed down the location they'd met recently to a bar - The Lonely Duck.

Sherlock gave her an annoyed glare before sticking the bobby pin back in the lock and jiggling it. "These apartments are old, Molly. The locks are fickle. This man isn't stupid either. See the string?" He pointed toward the small piece of tape connected to a thin bit of thread, just barely peeping out of the door-frame. "Trip-wire. People don't see it breaks, and that way he'll know if anyone's been in. Of course, it is terribly obvious, so not that smart." Hearing a click, he stuffed the bobby pin back in his pocket and carefully opened the door, making sure to step over the thread when slinking inside.

Molly stayed outside the door, standing watch in the hallway as he searched for evidence inside. She fiddled with her fingers, eyes trained on the end of the hallway and ears straining to listen to unusual sounds over the soft blares of TV coming from the other rooms.

Hearing the loud ding of an elevator, her body stiffened. "Sherlock!" she whispered, hearing the loud clomping of boots vibrating through the stone floors just around the corner. "Sherlock!" she said a bit louder, eyes wide with worry. Her fingernails dug into the peeling paint of the walls as she pressed herself against the wall, begging herself to be invisible. The other end of the hallway was a dead end. She had nowhere to go.

Just as she saw the end of boot come into view, turning into the hallway, Molly felt a small gust of wind blow by her left cheek and a tiny click that signified a door closing.

"Trust me," a soft breath blew in her ear, and suddenly her hands had been raised above her head, her lips captured by another pair of warm lips. She barely had time to register it was Sherlock before he tilted his head, licking her bottom lip. She gasped, granting him entrance. She could feel the rough stone behind her, the warm strength of his hands on her wrists, the press of his body against hers.

She closed her eyes, lost.

"Wat yer kids doin' here?" A loud voice interrupted, and his lips were dragged from hers with a loud pop. Her eyes shot open, faced with a man with a mohawk, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Oh, I - "

"Can't get no privacy nowhere." Sherlock spat on the ground, suddenly reverting to the appearance of a drugged up teen, his hair messy and hands stuck in his jean pockets. "Come on, Minny." He grabbed her hand, dragging her down the hallway as she took a peek back at the man still standing there.

"Scum!" the man shouted at them, but he didn't seem to suspect them of anything.

Once the two had gone down the elevator and a little ways away from the hotel, Sherlock finally let go of her hand. She blushed, wiping her sweaty hands on her jeans.

"Thank you," she said, looking into his bright, excited eyes.

"Look what I found?" He pulled a crinkled receipt from his pocket - one from The Lonely Duck at 8:15 pm two weeks ago. The same day and time as the other receipts they had.

Sherlock pulled out his phone.

"Who are you calling?" she asked him. "Sorry, texting?" she corrected when he looked at her. He never called. Except the day she found out her dad died. He had called then and simply listened to her sobbing over the phone, not offering a single word of comfort because he knew they wouldn't help.

"Lestrade," he answered. "Knew him from a few cases before, and he works for my brother." He rolled his eyes at that fact. "He'll take care of this scumbag and lock him away from a lifetime. Come on. Let's go to the Yard."

Pulling Molly toward the parking lot, he climbed on his motorbike, handing her the helmet. (I don't fall, he told her when she got mad at him. She had been completely red with anger over his safety, but he had won that argument, so he didn't wear a helmet).

Four hours later, they had given their statements, and everything was over with. Lestrade had believed his deductions (as Sherlock confidently told her he would) and had sent out men to arrest "Parrot, people call him 'cause of his mohawk. We've been trying to find evidence to arrest him for months. Nasty business, that one runs."

As she stood outside the police building, Molly felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She had found her dad's killer. He would have been proud of her.

"Come on." Sherlock took her hand as he walked out, and they headed toward his bike. As he dropped her off at her house and climbed off, handing his helmet to him, he looked at her, eyes assessing her face.

"What?" she asked, hand coming up to check if there was anything on her face.

"I didn't have to kiss you, you know." His cheeks turned pink, and he looked away.

"What?" Molly froze, her eyes wide.

"I wanted to kiss you." He looked back at her, sudden resolve in his eyes. Leaning forward, he pecked her lips, then stuffed the helmet over his head and rode off, leaving Molly standing there in surprise (and pleasure), her fingers grazing her still tingling lips.


End file.
